953 


IC-NRLF 


via 


EbD    753 


GIFT   OF 
Alfred  Kelcv 


^0  S^*^~i-*3.Yt~~*    /  f*-g9  /  ^T     £>    & 


apifo 


BY 


:.  800th. 


PHILADELPHIA. 
J,   B.    L1PPI  NOOTT   &  00, 

1865. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865, 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PAOK 

The  Angel  Post       .......  9 

The  Echo  of  the  Alps 10 

Forever  Thine 12 

At  the  Golden  Gate 14 

The  Pilgrim's  Pillow       ; 15 

Coming,  Love      .......  17 

0,  Annie  May 18 

The  dear  old  Robin  Red-breast            .         .         .  19 

A  Little  Blossom 22 

A  Mountain  Monument        .....  25 

The  Beautiful  Gem  on  the  Way       ....  29 

The  Volunteer's  Vision 30 

I  shall  be  with  Thee 32 

The  Broken  Band 34 

Willie  Brown           . 37 

Poems  Unwritten 39 

Send  me  some  Little  Token     .         .         .  40 

The  Western  Woods 41 

1*  (v) 


M2898B? 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
"  While  God  He  leaves  me  Reason,  God  He  will 

leave   me  Jim "    .         .         .         .         .         .45 

The  Western  Volunteer        .  48 

A  Kingly  Heritage 52 

We  Met  and  Parted 55 

Beat  to  her  Pulses  Sweet 57 

Eva 58 

Too  Late 60 

Lulu  Bell ,  61 

Bella  Dowe 63 

Sweet  Bessie  Gray 65 

Heart  Breathings 66 

Good  Night 68 

Tossed  upon  Life's  Heaving  Ocean          ...  69 

I  will  not  say  Good-bye       .....  70 

The  Alpine  Lovers 71 

I'm  Dying,  Comrade    ......  74 

The  Lord  will  Make  it  Good 76 

I  saw  Thee  from  Afar 78 

Our  Little  Bird  of  Paradise 79 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  on  his  Seventieth  Birth 
day  81 

Angels  !  Lead  Her  Lightly 83 

The  Old  Year       .......  84 

The  New  Year        .                  85 

Our  Souls  leap  over  the  Years    ....  86 

Thine  at  Last 89 

Allie  Grey 90 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAGE 
The  Swiss  Peasant  Woman's  Offering  to  the  Sanitary 

Fair  .  92 

Jack  and  Jim,  Comrades,  who  fell  at  the  Battle  of 

Fort  Fisher 94 

Good  Friday 99 

The  Dead  Boy 100 

The  Twin  Baby  Sleepers 102 

"It  might  have  been" 103 

Song  of  the  Rhine 104 

Let  the  Angels  be  my  Guide 105 


JHAVE  nothing  to  say  to  you,  dearest. 
Nothing  that  I  can  write, 
For  all  the  word  that  I  had  to  send, 
I  sent  by  the  Post  to-night. 

Not  in  the  form  of  a  letter, 

With  mark  and  stamp  and  seal, 

Did  I  trust  the  tender  message 
That  my  soul  had  to  reveal. 

Not  in  a  bunch  of  blossoms, 

Not  in  a  sweet  bouquet, 
Did  I  hide  the  beautiful  meaning. 

Of  the  words  I  dared  not  say. 


10  THE    ECHO    OF    THE    ALPS. 

But  I  sent  the  sweet  heart-music 
No  mortal  on  Earth  ere  wrote, 

What  need  that  the  soul's  soft  melodies 
Be  written  down  by  note  ? 

So  I've  nothing  to  say  to  you,  dearest, 
But  to  send  you  my  love  at  most, 

And  the  news  of  my  heart  that  I  cannot  write, 
I  send  by  the  Angel-Post. 


(Mto  o   the 


MY  heart  is  wandering  to  the  West, 
With  swift  and  noiseless  flight, 
To  seek  its  eagle  in  his  nest, 
And  pluck  a  feather  from  his  breast 

Beneath  the  wings  of  night  — 
A  feather  from  his  beating  breast 

That  shall  my  song  indite, 
A  feather  from  his  wounded  breast 
With  which  my  soul  may  write. 

Hush!  for  I  feel  a  flutter  — 
As  if  my  pen  possessed 

The  wizard  power  to  utter 

The  thoughts  within  my  breast. 


THE    ECHO    OF    THE    ALPS.  11 

I  soar  above  the  glaciers'  gleam, 

I  am  the  night-bird's  guest, 
I  fly  with  him  o'er  storm  and  stream, 
And  never  pause,  and  dream  my  dream, 

And  seek  my  ark  of  rest. 

Thou  art  where  flowery  prairies  roll, 

But  thy  heart  is  on  the  wing, 
And  the  mellow  music  of  thy  soul 

Gives  answer  as  I  sing. 
Thou  hast  called  the  whirlwind  for  a  guide 

Across  the  sounding  sea, 
And  the  spirit  of  the  wind  replied 

That  his  rushing  wings  were  free. 

I  viewed  thee  from  the  Alpine  height 

In  the  chamois'  agile  bound, 
And  felt  thee  in  the  lark's  delight, 

And  in  the  torrent's  sound. 
I  heard  thee  in  the  tempest's  tone, 

And  in  the  rippling  rills, 
I  saw  thee  in  the  woodlands  lone, 

And  called  thee  from  the  hills. 

And  the  very  heavens  resounded 

With  the  music  of  thy  name, 
And  the  listening  Alps  rebounded 

In  fiery  floods  of  flame. 


12  FOREVER    THINE. 

And  the  spirit  of  the  Alps  replied, 
That  he  felt  thy  dauntless  soul 

In  the  fearless  avalanche's  slide, 
And  in  the  thunder's  roll. 

He  told  me  that  thy  spirit's  home 
"Was  on  his  glancing  towers, 

And  in  his  torrent's  sparkling  foam, 
And  in  the  Alpine  flowers. 

And  a  voice  beyond  the  golden  stars 
Proclaimed  thy  dwelling  there  — 

I  hold  thee  in  my  prison  bars, 
Yet  thou  art  everywhere. 


"  T710REVER  thine!"  0,  simple  words! 
-L       Ye  lift  my  soul  on  charmed  wings, 
And  waken  all  its  silent  birds, 

That  have  not  sung  so  many  springs. 

Those  simple  words,  "  forever  thine" — 
A  letter's  sweet  and  lingering  close, 

With  deep  and  double  under-line, 

Stained  with  the  soft  leaves  of  a  rose. 


FOREVER    THINE.  13 

'T  is  many  months,  and  may  be,  years, 
Since  the  dear  letter's  words  were  penned ; 

I've  read  them  through  so  many  tears, 
I  scarce  can  read  them  more,  dear  friend. 

And  yet  the  tears  are  not  of  pain, 

Nor  all  of  joy,  for  while  I  weep 
I  read  "forever  thine"  again, 

And  dream  —  forever  mine  —  in  sleep. 

I  know  not  why  I  inly  sing 

At  those  sweet  words,  "forever  thine"  — 
As  if  the  spirit  of  the  spring 

Had  brought  them  meaning  more  divine. 

This  morning,  as  I  read  them  o'er, 

The  tear-stained  letters  seemed  to  shine ! 

And  one  who  was  of  earth  no  more 
Retraced  the  dear  "  forever  thine." 


14  AT    THE    GOLDEN    GATE. 


git  iltij  (BoWen  (Sate, 

"  r\  DON'T  you  remember"  the  corn,  Bell  Blair  1 

\J     That  waved  in  the  Autumn  breeze, 
Like  the  peaceful  flow  of  a  mother's  prayer, 

Or  the  swell  of  the  singing  seas? 
And  how,  when  the  harvest  time  came  on, 

We  hid  in  its  golden  sheaves 
To  watch  for  the  coming  of  gentle  John, 

From  under  the  low  barn  eaves? 


I  am  not  ashamed  that  I  loved  John  Dean, 

For  his  heart  was  pure  and  true, 
Though  the  flowers  he  culled  in  the  spring-time 
green 

"Were  always  given  to  you. 
And  you  crushed  them  under  your  feet.  Bell  Blair  ! 

As  he  lovingly  turned  away  j 
But  I  gathered  them  up  to  my  heart,  and  there 

They  are  all  a-bloom  to-day. 

Ah,  well  I  remember  the  roses,  born 
With  his  beautiful  love  for  thee  — 

How  he  freed  their  stems  of  the  faintest  thorn, 
And  the  briers  were  given  to  me. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  PILLOW.  15 

They  are  all  I  shall  ever  ask.  Bell  Blair! 

But  I  know  my  brier  will  blooin 
To  a  fragrant  flower  for  my  soul  to  wear, 

For  I  smell  its  rich  perfume. 

Sometimes,  when  the  shadowy  mist  uncurls 

From  the  path  my  soul  will  tread, 
And  the  rose  unfolds  mid  the  eddying  whirls 

Of  the  snow  around  my  head. 
And  now,  when  the  harvest  time  comes  on 

In  heaven,  I  shall  gladly  wait, 
And  watch  for  the  coming  of  angel  John, 

At  the  beautiful  golden  gate. 


ptgrim's  fpiltottr. 

PITY  me,  loving  Lord! 
Thou,  who  on  Earth  hadst  not  a  place  of  rest, 

The  sparrow  has  his  nest, 
And  I  — I  have  Thy  Word. 

In  the  world's  wilderness  alone  I  stand. 

Yet  not  alone,  0  God ! 
I  walk  beneath  the  shelter  of  Thy  hand, 

And  kiss  Thy  chastening  rod. 


16  THE  PILGRIM'S  PILLOW. 

I  seek  among  the  brambles  for  a  spot 

Whereon  to  lay  my  aching  heart  and  head 

But  find  no  place,  yet  I  have  not  forgot, 
How  Thy  beloved  are  led. 

I  know  that  in  the  world's  deep  wilderness, 
The  crystal  waters  of  Thy  mercies  flow, 

But  we  are  blinded  by  our  small  distress, 
And  think  too  seldom  on  Thy  sacred  woe. 

I  sought  a  downy  spot,  but  there  was  none, 
Save  in  the  fragrant  bloom  of  thistle-down, 

My  softest  pillow  is  a  mossy  stone  — 

Thistles  were  better  than  my  Saviour's  crown. 

Unbidden  tears  come  welling  to  my  eyes, 
And  yet  I  know  He  watched  me  while  I  slept ; 

The  little  larks  with  sweetest  prayers  arise, 
And  I  remember  that  my  Jesus  wept ! 

It  was  not  Want,  nor  simple  suffering. 

Nor,  that  the  brambles  wounded  by  the  way, 
That  caused  the  sorrow  of  the  Shepherd  King  — 

His  lambkins  went  astray. 

It  matters  little,  if  the  weary  way 

Be  long  or  short,  or  flowery,  straight  or  steep, 

For  well  I  know  that  in  His  own  good  day 
He  giveth  all  of  His  beloved  sleep. 


COMING,    LOVE  !  17 


I  HEAR  the  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
I  see  a  shadow  glide 
From  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  eves 
When  we  were  side  by  side, 
And  all  the  world  was  wide  — 
And  we  were  all  the  world,  mine  own, 
Its  joy,  and  melody,  and  moan, 
Until  there  crept  an  under-tone, 
And  swelled  to  this  deep  dirge  —  alone  ! 

Thy  shadow,  Love!  is  coming 

Across  the  weary  years; 
My  heart  is  faintly  humming 

A  song  thy  name  endears. 

It  almost  breaks  to  listen  — 

I  feel  thy  tread  so  still, 
And  all  the  dewdrops  glisten, 

And  all  the  roses  thrill; 
And  all  the  blessed  angels 

Are  smiling  from  above, 
And  singing  sweet  evangels, 

For  thou  art  coming,  Love ! 


18  o,  ANNIE  MAY! 


5rnWAS  Summer  in  the  sunny  West 
JL      When  first  I  met  you  by  the  way; 

'T  is  little  I  have  known  of  rest  — 
Ah !  little,  since  that  sunny  day. 

Why  were  you  there,  0,  Annie  May ! 

With  song-birds  hopping  on  your  breast 
No  wonder  they  should  love  to  play 

Around  so  beautiful  a  nest. 

Were  you  a-weary,  Annie  May ! 

Of  what,  and  whom,  0,  sweetest  maid ! 
Or  wherefore  was  it  that  you  lay 

Asleep  beneath  the  hazel  shade  ? 

I  saw  you  in  the  noonday  hours, 

With  these  black  eyes  that  cannot  see; 

I  thought  you  were  a  bunch  of  flowers  — 
Of  snow-white  blossoms  blown  for  me. 

Was  there  no  angel  in  the  West 

To  stoop  and  tell  you  I  was  there  — 

To  start  the  song-birds  from  your  breast. 
And  send  them  singing  up  in  air  ? 


THE    DEAR    OLD    ROBIN    RED-BREAST.        19 

No  spirit  of  the  wood-land  dell 

To  turn  my  weapon's  aim  away  ? 
The  dead  and  bleeding  birdling  fell, 

And  thou  —  alas!     0,  Annie  May! 

0,  Annie  May  !     0,  Annie  May ! 

Could  I  have  seen  thee  once  before, 
Perhaps  'twere  not  so  hard  to  say 

That  I  shall  see  thee  now  no  more. 

And  may  be  it  were  harder  still  — 

I  cannot  say :  I  can  but  weep, 
As  here,  upon  a  daisied  hill, 

I  sit  and  guard  thy  dreamless  sleep. 


I  WAKENED  as  the  lark  went  up,  at  daylight's 
early  dawning, 
To  bid  the  Angels  up  in  heaven  a  jubilant  good 

morning, 
A  thousand  loving  little  larks  were  singing  in  my 

breast, 

But  the  grand  old  robin  red-breast  sang  louder  than 
the  rest. 


20        THE    DEAR    OLD    ROBIN    RED-BREAST. 

He   sang   from    out  the   dear  old   years   through 

memory's  golden  vista, 
I  saw  him  sitting  on  the  birch  beside  his  pretty 

sister, 
The  same  as  when    in   other  morns  we  watched 

their  sober  plays. 
I  dreamed  of  you  last  night,  Bob  I  of  the  robins 

and  the  jays; 

And  of  the  sweet  witch-hazel,  and  of  the  four- 
leaved  clover, 

And  of  our  castles  in  the  air  that  long  since  tum 
bled  over; 

And  of  the  fragrant  sassafras,  and  of  the  scented 
fern, 

0,  Bob  !  if  all  those  blessed  days  could  once  again 
return ! 


If  I  could  have  a  spikenard   root,  or  smell  the 

wintergreen, 
Or  pluck  the  lustrous  princess-pine,    or   see  the 

laurel's  sheen  — 
Why,  I  should  almost  feel,  dear  Bob  !  as  if,  with 

hand  in  hand, 
We  wandered    through  the  spicy  woods,   in    the 

bright  old  summer-land. 


THE    DEAR    OLD    ROBIN    RED-BREAST.        21 

Have  you  kept  the  long  brown  curl,  Bob !  I  gave 
you  when  we  parted  ? 

I've  never  lost  your  golden  lock,  but  you  were 
giddy  hearted, 

And  it  may  be  that  you  have  thrown  the  worthless 
thing  away  — 

Was  it  a  worthless  thing  to  you  ?  perhaps  —  I  can 
not  say. 

Last  week  I  read  of  you,  dear  Bob !  in  Harper's 

Magazine, 
It  seems  that  you  are  Bob  no  more,  but  Captain 

Robert  Green  • 

It  may  be  you  are  Captain,  or  a  General  —  may  be, 
But  never  anything  but  Bob  can  you  ever  be  to  me. 

I  read  about  how  brave  you  were,  and  of  your  good 

promotion, 
And  then  I  kissed  the  sunny  lock  whose  mates  are 

o'er  the  ocean ; 
And  all  last  night  I  dreamed  of  you,  and  the  robin 

hopped  between, 
And  sang  unto  my  heart  of  Bob  —  not  Captain 

Robert  Green. 


22 


A    LITTLE    BLOSSOM. 


£ittt<  ilossom. 


TO   GERRIT   SMITH. 

I  DARE  not  speak  of  tliee,  in  idle  rhyming, 
As  one  might  of  another, 
Thou,   whose  great  soul  with  all  things  good   is 

chiming, 
The  world's  most  loving  brother ! 

Thou,  in  whose  heart  the  most  melodious  measures 

Keep  sweetest  tune  and  time; 
Yet  I  have  nought,  from  all  my  little  treasures, 

To  give  thee,  but  my  rhyme. 

For  when  my  heart,  with  beautiful  emotion, 

Is  lifted  high  and  higher, 

Thrilled  with  thy  thoughts,  from  o'er  the  Alps  and 
ocean, 

As  with  electric  fire  — 

It  is  but  meet  to  find  some  sweet  oblation, 

With  reverence  to  bring 
Unto  thy  feet,  thou  living  revelation 

Of  what  the  mountains  sin"1 ! 


A    LITTLE    BLOSSOM.  23 

And  I  have  nothing  save  a  little  blossom, 

Gathered  beneath  the  snow, 
Upon  St.  Gothard's  palpitating  bosom, 

Where  Alpine  roses  blow. 


Beyond  a  thousand  dimpling  dells  and  fountains 

I  see  the  glaciers  gleam; 
O'er  the  white  vesture  of  the  Alpine  mountains 

Eternal  rainbows  beam. 


I  look  —  the  hills  are  towering  in  the  distance, 

Where  the  immortal  Three 
Swore  a  great  oath  that  with  the  Lord's  assistance, 

Their  country  should  be  free. 


And  the  Alps  heard  it,  while  at  their  foundations 

The  very  roses  smiled  — 
They  thought  how  God  had  given  to  the  nations 

The  Freedom  they  denied. 


Therefore  a  little  Alpine  flower  I  find  thee  — 

A  messenger  of  light, 
Unfolden  on  the  mountains,  to  remind  thee 

It  is  not  always  night. 


24  A    LITTLE    BLOSSOM. 

The  buds  of  Freedom  through  thy  spirit  breaking, 

Begin  to  burst  in  bloom; 
And  Liberty  shall  have  her  full  awaking, 

O'er  Slavery's  tearless  tomb. 


Thy  life  has  been  a  beautiful  evangel 

To  all  the  weak  and  lowly ; 
For  the  oppressed  thou  art  a  guardian  angel, 

A  psalter  high  and  holy. 


The  soul  of  Switzerland  upsprings  to  meet  thee, 

She  stretches  out  her  hand 
Across  the  mountains  and  the  seas  to  greet  thee, 

And  lure  thee  to  her  land. 

Zurich,  Switzerland. 


A    MOUNTAIN    MONUMENT.  25 


gjRomitaitt 


TO    GENERAL    GARIBALDI. 

r\  AKEBALDI  imprisoned !     And  yet  the  hills 
vJ     Are  as  free  as  they  were  at  morn, 
And  a  mountain  soul  in  fetters  —  God! 
The  Alps  grow  pale  with  scorn  ! 

They  think  of  the  gleam  of  the  first  sunbeam, 
When  the  wakening  world  was  young, 

When  the  little  hills  lay  down  to  dream, 
And  the  stars  of  the  Morning  sung. 

And  of  how,  at  the  sound  of  the  Freedom  song, 

They  rose  up  into  space, 
And  stood  by  the  side  of  the  starry  throng 

And  looked  God  in  the  face. 

*  Thgre  is  a  gigantic  formation  of  Alps — comprising 
part,  of  the  Bernina  Range  —  in  the  Upper  Engadine, 
Switzerland,  bearing  the  lineaments  of  a  human  face  — 
recently  noted  for  its  striking  resemblance  to  Garibaldi, 
the  news  of  whose  wounds  and  imprisonment  at  Aspro- 
monte,  reached  us  while  sojourning  at  Pontresina,  in 
sight  of  this  marvellous  creation. 
3 


26  A    MOUNTAIN    MONUMENT. 

They  listened  with  their  regal  forms 

Upheld  in  royal  might, 
And  heard  above  the  chaos  storms, 

His  sweet,  "Let  there  be  light!" 

The  mountains  crimsoned  with  delight, 
And  shook  in  thunder  thrills ; 

They  leaned  across  the  jeweled  night, 
And  whispered  to  the  hills. 

And  the  little  hills  upspringing, 
Gave  back  an  answering  nod, 

Then  burst  out  into  singing 
Of  Freedom  and  of  God. 

And  Freedom  took  her  dwelling  place 

Upon  the  mountains  fair, 
And  proudly,  with  a  goddess'  grace, 

She  rock?  her  eagles  there. 

The  mountains  shivered  with  unrest, 
The  pitying  goddess  smiled, 

She  saw  upon  their  snowy  breast 
The  picture  of  her  child. 

Thy  picture,  Garibaldi ! 

Upon  the  hills  of  God ! 
Where  tyrant  monarch  never  reigned, 

And  Despot  never  trod. 


A    MOUNTAIN    MONUMENT.  27 

She  saw  its  towering  forehead  rise 

An  Alp,  with  sun-lit  snows ! 
Beneath  its  rainbow-arched  eyes 

She  heard  the  storms  repose  — 

The  storm-winds  breathing  low  and  deep, 

And  whispering  in  their  dreams, 
As  when  a  giant  speaks  in  sleep, 

On  most  melodious  themes. 

Around  its  bearded  granite  mouth 

She  saw  the  fringe  of  pines  — 
The  sighing  pine  trees  leaning  South 

And  swaying  toward  the  vines. 

She  saw  its  glorious  features  turned 

To  the  sweet  land  of  song, 
And  her  majestic  spirit  spurned 

The  world  that  wrought  him  wrong. 

She  longed  to  lure  the  Poet  Land 

Up  to  her  crystal  throne  — 
To  lead  her  by  the  rosy  hand 

Where  Freedom  reigns  alone. 


She  longed  to  bid  her  dauntless  sons 

Rise  in  imperial  might, 
And  lift  her  loved  and  fettered  ones 

Up  to  her  realm  of  light. 


A    MOUNTAIN    MONUMENT. 

The  indignant  eagles  sunward  start; 

The  wondering  winds  awake  — 
Freedom  is  wounded  in  the  heart 

For  all  her  children's  sake. 

At  Garibaldi's  prison  bars, 

The  guardian  goddess  sings  ! 
She  lifts  the  blood-stained  "Stripes  and  Stars" 

Over  the  thrones  of  kings ! 

Enthroned  on  the  Eternal  hills, 

With  God  within  her  sight, 
She  hears  the  nation's  tocsin-thrills, 

And  feels  a  Conqueror's  might. 

She  sees  her  glorious  Flag  unfurled 

To  every  Nation's  breath ; 
Her  clarion  war-cry  for  the  World 

Is  "Liberty  or  Death!" 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    GEM    ON    THE    WAY.        29 


(Bern  011  tint 

I  KNOW  a  sweet  letter  is  winging 
Its  way,  o'er  the  land  and  the  sea, 
And  a  beautiful  burden  is  bringing, 
From  over  the  hills,  to  me. 


I  know  how  the  triad  spirit  fluttered, 

When  it  thrilled  to  the  words  that  were  penned, 

Yet  the  beautiful  thoughts  unuttered, 
Are  those  I  most  wish  her  to  send. 

She  wrote  with  a  tremulous  shiver, 

And  wondered  whene'er  we  should  meet 

This  side  of  the  murmuring  river, 

Where  sweet  shall  be  mingled  with  sweet. 

I  would  that  I  were  but  the  blushes, 
That  smiled  on  her  out  of  the  east, 

Or  even  a  pause  in  the  hushes, 

Where  her  musical  breathing  had  ceased. 

I  know  only  this  of  the  letter  — 

I  dreamed  she  had  written  to  me 
My  spirit  is  bound  with  a  fetter 

From  which  I  would  never  be  free. 


30  THE  VOLUNTEER'S  VISION. 

I  will  patiently  wait  till  the  coming 
Of  the  beautiful  gem  on  the  way, 

While  my  spirit  is  inwardly  humming 
The  words  that  I  know  she  will  say. 


fs  Vision. 


LAST  night  as  I  lay  in  the  rain, 
And  looked  up  to  heaven  through  the  night, 
A  vision  came  o'er  me,  and  lighted  my  brain 
With  a  glory  that  never  will  flood  it  again, 
This  side  of  the  River  of  Light. 

And  I  heard  a  sweet  sound  as  it  came, 

Like  the  flutter  of  feathery  wings, 
And  the  voice  of  a  seraph  kept  calling  my  name, 
And  her  breath  in  my  tresses  went  playing  the  same 
As  the  air  in  an  instrument's  strings. 

I  told  my  wild  heart  to  be  still, 

That  the  vision  was  naught  but  a  dream, 
For  I  knew  not  that  over  the  amethyst  hill 
The  feet  of  my  darling  had  wandered  at  will, 
On  the  banks  of  Eternity's  stream. 


THE  VOLUNTEER'S  VISION.  31 

I  said  to  the  seraph-winged  bird, 

0,  why  have  you  coine  from  the  West  ? 
And  she  told  how  the   leaves  of  the  forest  were 

stirred 
By  the  feet  of  the  angels  who  brought  her  the 

word 
Of  a  land  where  the  weary  may  rest. 

She  said  she  was  tired  and  faint, 

And -her  heart  was  all  covered  with  snow; 
The  angels  they  heard  her  unuttered  complaint, 
They  called  her,  and  brought  her  the  robes  of  a 

saint, 
And  she  said  she  was  ready  to  go. 

I  told  her  the  blossoms  were  sweet, 

In  the  meadows,  the  same  as  of  yore ; 
But  she  showed  me  the  dew  on  her  sparkling  feet, 
They  had  caught  of  the  lilies  that  bordered  the 

street, 
By  the  sands  of  the  Paradise  shore. 

I  asked  her  how  long  I  must  wait 

Before  I  should  meet  her  afar, 
And  I  prayed  her  unfold  me  the  book  of  my  fate ; 
But  she  vanished,  and  passed  through  the  crystal 
line  gate 

She  had  left  in  her  coming  ajar. 


32  I    SHALL    BE    WITH    THEE. 

Dear  Hugh,  there's  a  battle  to-day, 

And  perchance  I  may  happen  to  fall; 
If  I'm  not  at  the  call  of  the  roll,  you  may  say 
A  good-bye  to  the  boys   in  my  name,  for  I  may 
Have  said  "aye"  to  an  Angel's  call. 


J  shall  64  trith 


I  HEAR  a  footstep  in  the  hall, 
I  see  a  shadow  on  the  wall  — 
A  moving  shadow  dark  and  tall  — 
A  voiceless  shadow  —  this  is  all. 


No  gentle  footfall  near  my  door 
Thrills  to  my  heart  across  the  floor, 
And  I  am  weary  thinking  o'er 
That  music  I  shall  hear  no  more  — 


That  tender  music,  soft,  and  sweet  — 
The  melody  of  coming  feet; 
I  cry,  and  echo  sends  the  call 
Back  to  my  heart — and  this  is  all. 


I    SHALL   BE    WITH    THEE.  33 

I  feel  a  soft  hand  on  my  head  — 
A  hand  whose  touch  seems  overspread 
With  balm,  like  that  the  lilies  shed 
O'er  the  white  bosoms  of  the  dead  ] 
And  I  am  chill,  while  memories  fall 
Like  odors  o'er  me  —  this  is  all. 

I  feel  the  rhythm  and  the  rhyme 
Of  thy  dear  life  keep  sweetest  time 
With  God's  sweet  sounds,  and  overclimb 
All  sounds  with  which  they  inter-chime. 
I  see  thee  —  hear  thee  —  feel  thy  breath 
In  the  still  air  which  answereth, 
With  lightest  kiss  whene'er  I  call, 
Mid  tears  for  thee  —  and  this  is  all. 


I  cannot  hear  thee  in  the  hall, 
Nor  see  thy  shadow  on  the  wall, 
Yet  I  shall  hear  an  angel  call 
My  name  adown  the  jasper  wall; 
For  when  the  leaves  of  Autumn  fall, 
I  shall  be  with  thee  —  this  is  all. 


34  THE    BROKEN    BAND. 


COME  o'er  the  sea,  dear  friend,  with  me, 
Back  to  the  good  old  days, 
No  need  to-night  of  other  light  — 

The  maple  log's  a-blaze. 
So  let  it  burn,  while  we  return, 

And  by  its  pleasant  glow 
We'll  walk  the  ways,  and  sing  the  lays 
Of  the  dear  old  long-ago. 

I'll  sit  here  in  the  shadow,  but  you  must  have  the 

light; 
For  I  would  see  your  soul  shine  out  upon  your  face 

to-night. 
You  will  listen  for  sweet  voices,  and  you  think  I 

cannot  hear, 
So  tell  your  dear  old  secrets  and  forget  that  I  am 

near. 

I'll  sit  here  while  you're  talking  with  the  forms  I 

cannot  see, 
Perhaps  I  feel  their  presence,  though  they  never 

think  of  me ; 

I  see  a  gleam  of  silver  above  the  old  arm-chair, 
And  a  sound  like  one  of  David's  psalms  is  floating 

in  the  air. 


THE    BROKEN    BAND.  35 

Here  sat  the  grand  old  patriarch  and  patriot,  whose 

tone 
Once  floated  from  the  old  arm-chair  up  to  the  golden 

throne ; 
And  there,  beside  the  long  great  clock,  I  seem  to 

see  a  gleam, 
So  like  an  angel's  crown  of  light,  it  cannot  be  a 

dream. 

And  underneath  the  saintly  crown  I  see  a  silver 

head  — 
I  know   the   blessed    grandame  sleeps  beside  the 

dreamless  dead ; 
And  yet  she  sits  there  singing,  with  her  knitting  in 

her  hand, 
A  song  from  Watts  his  hymn  book  about  the  Better 

Land. 

There  enters  at  the  open  door  the  stately  country 
squire, 

With  the  pretty  maid  who  sang  the  best  of  all  the 
village  choir; 

Why  do  you  start  and  turn  away  at  her  still  foot 
step's  fall? 

Ah,  me !  I  hear  your  whispered  vows,  and  then  — 
an  angel's  call. 


36  THE    BROKEN    BAND. 

I  know  the  Squire  is  Colonel  now,  in  the  brave  New 

Hampshire  ranks; 
"Was  he  the  gallant  Colonel  Brown  who  fought  with 

General  Banks  ? 
"  Yes ;  and  a  glorious  fellow  he  —  he'll  have  a  grand 

career" — 
Poor  friend,  I  lay  the  Times  aside  —  the  Colonel's 

death  is  here. 


I'll  not  disturb  your  reverie  with  talking  of  the 
brave  — 

The  cottage  boundaries  expand  —  I  stand  beside  a 
grave : 

"  T  wonder  where  my  brother  Will  is  wandering  to 
night  ?" 

Dear  Willie  walks  the  pearly  streets  up  in  the 
realms  of  light. 

I  heard  the  soldier's  funeral  hymn  they  chanted 
o'er  his  rest, 

I  saw  them  fold  the  glorious  Flag  above  his  dream 
less  breast, 

And  I  see  him  standing,  even  now,  beside  you, 
while  you  speak, 

With  golden  curls  upon  his  brow,  and  smiles  upon 
his  cheek. 


WILLIE    BROWN.  37 

Come  o'er  the  main,  dear  friend,  again, 

Back,  to  the  Alpine  Land; 
Thy  household  door  shall  ope  no  more 

On  an  unbroken  band. 
The  loving  lays  of  other  days 

By  Angel  lips  are  sung, 
And  others  walk  the  flowery  ways 

We  trod  when  we  were  young. 


npHE  night  was  dark  in  Ireland, 
-L      The  rain  was  falling  down, 
And  death  was  stealing  to  the  heart 
Of  little  Willie  Brown. 

He  lay  upon  his  mother's  knee, 
And  looked  within  her  eyes; 

Of  summers  he  had  known  but  three, 
And  they  were  three  of  sighs. 

He  looked  within  her  gentle  eyes 
And  tried  in  vain  to  speak ; 

And  paler  grew  the  faded  flowers 

Upon  his  lily  cheek. 
4 


38  WILLIE    BROWN. 

And  well  the  mother  knew  the  words 
Her  darling  would  have  said, 

For  there  he  lay  a-dying — 
Dying  for  want  of  bread. 

The  rain  upon  the  grassy  roof 
Came  wildly  rushing  down, 

And  angels  waited  for  the  soul 
Of  little  Willie  Brown. 

He  lay  upon  his  mother's  knee; 

And  faster  fell  the  rain; 
He  never  looked  within  her  eyes, 

Or  asked  for  bread  again. 

And  paler  grew  his  lily  cheek, 
His  golden  hair  uncurled, 

And  the  angels  whispered  him  away 
From  hunger  and  the  world. 


POEMS    UNWRITTEN.  39 


rpRERE  are  poems  unwritten,  and  songs  unsung, 
JL      Sweeter  than  any  that  ever  were  heard  — 
Poems  that  wait  for  an  angel  tongue, 
Songs  that  but  long  for  a  Paradise  bird. 

Poems  that  ripple  through  lowliest  lives  — 

Poems  unnoted  and  hidden  away 
Down  in  the  souls  where  the  beautiful  thrives, 

Sweetly  as  flowers  in  the  airs  of  the  May. 


Poems  that  only  the  angels  above  us, 

Looking  down  deep  in  our  hearts,  may  behold 

Felt,  though  unseen,  by  the  beings  who  love  us. 
Written  on  lives  as  in  letters  of  gold. 

Sing  to  my  soul  the  sweet  song  that  thou  livest ! 

Read  me  the  poem  that  never  was  penned  — 
The  wonderful  idyl  of  life  that  thou  givest 

Fresh  from  thy  spirit,  0,  beautiful  friend! 


10  SEND    ME    SOME    LITTLE    TOKEN. 


me 


SEND  me  some  little  token, 
That  my  yearning  heart  may  know 
That  the  vows  have  not  been  broken, 
Of  the  beautiful  long  ago. 

I  can  feel  in  the  twilight  chilly, 

Whenever  I  think  of  thee, 
The  soul  of  the  fragrant  lily, 

Quietly  steal  o'er  me  — 

Drowning  my  sense  so  sweetly 

In  a  flood  of  pure  perfume, 
That  thy  presence  fills  completely 

The  air  of  my  quiet  room. 

Send  me  a  sprig  that  has  pattered 
In  the  wind  on  thy  window  pane, 

Where  the  wrens  in  the  morn  have  chattered 
To  the  sound  of  the  running  rain. 

Send  me  a  leaf  or  a  blossom 

That  thy  beautiful  eyes  have  seen, 

With  a  sigh  from  thy  heart  to  my  bosom, 
To  quietly  creep  between. 


THE    WESTERN    WOODS.  41 

It  will  come  like  a  balm  to  the  wounded, 

And  shiver  the  rock  in  twain, 
Where  the  bark  of  my  hope  is  grounded, 

In  the  surge  of  the  tossing  main. 


Wit&itrn 


I  CANNOT  see  the  glittering  Alps  that  sparkle 
on  my  sight, 
I  gaze  upon  their  snowy  peaks,  but  on  another 

light: 
I  look  beyond  the  haze  of  years,  to  the  Indian 

Summer  days, 

And  I  see  the  boundless  prairies  of  the  Western 
world  a-blaze  ! 


I  hear  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  upon  the  distant 

breeze, 
The  soft  and  rosy  atmosphere  comes  dreaming  o'er 

the  seas  — 
The  balmy  Indian  Summer  air  that  mellows  all  the 

West, 
And  lays  the  Autumn's  drapery  upon  the  Winter's 

breast. 
4* 


42  THE    WESTERN    WOODS. 

The  magic  of  the  hazy  air  has  borne  me  back  again 
To  the  cabin  by  the  maple  grove,  beside  the  prairie 

plain ; 
I   sit  within   the  long,  dry  grass,  and  watch  the 

untravelled  way, 
And  I  see  my  pretty  little  fawns,  under  the  oaks, 

at  play. 


The  lovely  creatures  spring  aside,  and  dart  across 
the  grass, 

And  then  I  hear  a  footstep  near — I'll  wait,  and  let 
it  pass; 

And  so  I  fold  my  trembling  hands  across  my  half- 
shut  eyes, 

But  it  cannot  close  the  vision  out  between  me  and 
the  skies. 


"You  came  so  still,  dear  neighbor  Phil,  you  set  my 

heart  a-flutter ;" 
And  this  was  all  that   I  recall  'twas  possible  to 

utter ] 
I  wished  the  creeping  twilight  tide  on  fleeter  wings 

had  sped, 
And  this  was  what  I  thought  about,  but  I  know  not 

what  I  said. 


THE    WESTERN    WOODS.  43 

But  this  I  know,  the  sunset's  glow  had  made  my 

pale  cheek  rosy, 
I  feared  the  flush  was  like  a  blush,  I  stooped  and 

plucked  a  posy ; 
'Twas  but  a  faded  prairie   flower,   and  neighbor 

Philip  smiled, 
"  Oh,  come,"  said  he,  "  and  walk  with  me,  the  airs 

are  soft  and  mild." 


We  wandered  to  a  woodland  stream,  and  heard  a 

wild  swan  sing, 
We  saw  a  flock  of  pigeons  soar  above  us  on  the 

wing; 
We  heard  the  whirring  partridge  pass,  and  startled 

up  a  roe, 
Yet  how  we  came  to  frighten  her  is  more  than  I 

can  know. 


We  never  could  have  talked  aloud  —  I  know  not  if 

at  all  — 
You "  might  have  heard  a  breathing  bird,  or  the 

lightest  leaflet's  fall; 
I  think  that  Philip  did  not  speak,  and  yet  it  really 

seems 
As  if  some  low-toned  words  of  his  were  woven  in 

my  dreams. 


44  THE    WESTERN    WOODS. 

It  must  have  been  his  eyes  that  spoke  —  'twas 
nothing  hut  his  eyes  — 

A  roe  might  just  as  well  have  run  from  the  star 
light  of  the  skies ; 

Yet  I  remember,  while  I  think,  of  how  I  tried  to 
hide, 

As  I  felt  him  coming  through  the  grass,  in  the 
early  even-tide. 


We  stepped  across  a  babbling  brook,  the  wild-duck 

were  asleep 
Among  the  fragrant  water-flowers,  in  slumbers  soft 

and  deep. 
How  lovely  it  must  be  to  rest  in  such  a  wild-wood 

bed, 
With  silver  sands  beneath  the  feet,  and  the  stars 

of  heaven  o'erhead. 


We  heard  the  prairie-chickens  peep  from  out  their 

hidden  nest; 
'Twas  time  that  they  were  fast  asleep,  'neath  their 

mother's  speckled  breast j 
And  though  the  early  stars  were  out,  we  heard  the 

whistling  quail ; 
Were  I  to  tell  of  all  we  heard,  my  pen  and  ink 

would  fail. 


GOD    HE  WILL   LEAVE    ME    JIM.  45 

And  yet  the  loudest  sound  of  all  was  in  each  throb 
bing  breast, 

My  heart  has  never  ceased  to  beat  with  the  same 
sweet  wild  unrest  ; 

And  now  the  Alpine  Autumn  leaves  are  rustling 
on  the  ground, 

But  I  only  see  the  Western  Woods,  and  hear  my 
own  heart's  sound. 


60(1  li|  teaws  mt 
J 


mil  IttHj*  nu     im/'* 


OLDIER  !  say,  did  you  meet  my  Jimmy  in 

the  fight? 
You'd  know  him  by  his  manliness,  and  by  his  eyes' 

sweet  light." 
"I  fought  beside  your  gallant  son  —  a  brave,  good 

fellow  he; 

Alas  !  he  fell  beneath  the  shot  that  should  have 
taken  me." 

*  Words  of  an  American  soldier's  mother,  who,  on 
hearing  that  her  son  had  fallen  in  battle,  became  hope 
lessly  insane,  though  continually  insisting  that  his  having 
"fallen"  was  of  no  consequence. 


46      WHILE    GOD    HE    LEAVES    ME    REASON, 

"  And  think  you   that  my  Jimmy  cared  about  a 

little  fall? 
Why  make  a  great  ado  of  what  he  would  not  mind 

at  all  ? 
When  Jimmy  was    a  little  boy  and  played   with 

Bobby  Brown, 
He  always  played  the  enemy,  and  Bob  he  shot  him 

down. 


"  I've  seen  him  fall  a  hundred  times  —  the  cunning 

little  sprite ! 
He  can't  forget  his  boyish  tricks,  though   in  an 

earnest  fight. 
But  never  mind  about  the  fall,  I  want  to  hear  of 

him  'y 
Perhaps  you've  heard  the  Captain  speak  of  what  he 

thinks  of  Jim  ?" 


"  I  often  heard  the  Captain  say,  Jim  was  a  splendid 

lad  — 
The  bravest,  and  the  handsomest,  of  all  the  boys 

he  had; 
And  here's  a  lock  of  Jimmy's  hair,  and  here's  a 

golden  ring  — 
I  found   it   tied   around  his  neck  upon   a   silken 

string." 


GOD    HE    WILL    LEAVE    ME    JIM.  47 

The  mother  took  the  matted  tress,  she  took  the 

ring  of  gold, 
But  shook  her  head,  and  laughed  aloud  at  what  the 

soldier  told : 
"  Soldier  !"  said  she,  "  where  is  my  boy — Where  is 

my  brave  boy  Jim  ? 
I  gave  the  others  all  to  God,  but  God  He  left  me 

him. 

"  Hush !  there  is  Uncle  Abraham,  a-knocking  at 

the  door, 
He  calls  for  other  mother's  sons  —  three  hundred 

thousand  more ! 
Be  still,  Old  Uncle  Abraham  —  't  will  do  no  good 

to  call; 
You  think  my  house  is  full  of  boys  —  ah  !  Jimmy 

was  my  all !" 


48  THE    WESTERN    VOLUNTEER. 


I  KNEW  his  loyal  heart  would  leap  at  the  first 
battle  sound, 

And  that  his  glorious  soul  would  spring  with  wild 
exultant  bound, 

To  meet  the  traitors  face  to  face,  upon  the  traitor- 
land  ', 

The  sound  of  his  melodious  voice  will  quell  the 
rebel  band, 

The  thunder  of  his  glorious  voice  will  shake  the 
despot's  sand. 


His  very  words  to   other  boys  are  as  a  trumpet's 

call; 
The  widow  Alden's  sons  are  brave,  but  mine  is  most 

of  all. 
And  sister  Jane,  whose  Samuel  has  quite  a  fair 

renown, 
Told  me  this  morning  that  my  John  was  the  bravest 

boy  in  town, 
And  she  said  that  John  was  fit  to  die,  like  the 

Patriot  John  Brown. 


THE    WESTERN    VOLUNTEER.  49 

I  told  her  I  could  keep  the  sun  from  sinking  in  the 
West, 

As  well  as  I  could  keep  my  John  within  the  house 
hold  nest; 

For  ever  since  the  darling  knew  of  Sumpter's  fear 
less  fate, 

It  seenis  as  if  the  blessed  boy  was  almost  filled  with 
hate  — 

The  South  will  soon  begin  to  wish  there  was  no 
Western  State. 


I've  nothing  in  the  world  to  say  against  an  Eastern 

lad, 
For  Dick  was  born  at  home  in  Maine,  and  Dick  is 

not  so  bad; 
Yet  brother  Bichard  never  was  the  boy  that  John 

will  be; 
There  may  be  other  lads  as  good,  but  John's  the 

best  for  me 
Of  all  the  boys  that  go  to  war  —  we'll  see  what  we 

shall  see  ! 


As  I  was  telling   sister  Jane  ('twas  natural,  you 

know), 
I  almost  thought  my  heart  would  break,  when  I 

knew  that  John  would  go; 
5 


50  THE    WESTERN    VOLUNTEER. 

But  I  never  said  a  single  word,  except  that  lie  was 

right, 
Yet  I  believe  my  hands  they  shook,  as  I  handed 

him  the  light 
Before  he  went  up  stairs  to  bed  to  his  little  room 

that  night. 

I  sat  beside  the  kitchen  fire,  and   thought  about 

my  son ; 

It  cannot  be  that  I  was  weak  —  he  is  my  only  one  — 
But  I  never  dreamed  of  keeping  him  ('t  would  be 

of  no  avail), 
I  thought  how  true  the  boy  would  be  if  all  the  rest 

should  fail ; 
If  John  was  set  against  the  World,  the  World  could 

not  prevail. 

I  took  the  candle  from  the  stand,  and  softly  went 
up  stairs, 

As  when,  in  other  days,  I  heard  my  baby  say  his 
prayers ; 

But  John  was  sleeping,  and  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
his  head ; 

What  was  it  that  the  blessed  boy  in  his  sweet  sleep 
ing  said  ? 

Poor  child !  't  was  not  his  mother's  name,  but  a 
maiden's  name  instead. 


THE    WESTERN    VOLUNTEER.  51 

I  kissed  his  lips,  and  kissed  his  cheek,  and  smoothed 

his  clustering  hair; 
0,  what  a  glorious  boy  he  was  as  he  lay  dreaming 

there ; 
I  thought  what  Gen.  Scott  would  think,  to  see  so 

hrave  a  man 
Come  thundering   from   the  Western   States,   the 

foremost  in  the  Van ; 
The  good  old  General  shall  see  that  what  we  will, 

we  can  ! 


If  there  should  be  a  rebel  Flag  flaunting  within 
the  town, 

My  John  he  is  the  very  boy  to  go  and  take  it 
down. 

My  sister  asked  how  I  should  feel  if  John  should 
chance  to  fall  ? 

Ah !  such  a  thing  could  never  be — I  have  no  fear 
at  all; 

I  tell  you  John  is  proof  against  the  fleetest  cannon- 
ball. 


The  prairie  and  the  village  street  thrill  to  the  drum 

and  fife; 
[  could  not  help  these  truant  tears,  were  it  to  save 

my  life. 


52  A    KINGLY    HERITAGE. 

The  cars  are  starting  for  the  East  amid  a  thousand 
cheers ; 

Though  mother  of  a  soldier  son,  I  cannot  stay  my 
tears. 

God  bless  the  noble  regiments  of  Western  Volun 
teers  ! 


I  HAVE  a  little  drop  of  blood 
Whose  course  is  wild  and  fleet, 
Sometimes  I  feel  it  in  my  soul, 

And  sometimes  in  my  feet. 
Sometimes  it  courses  like  a  rill, 

And  sometimes  like  a  flood, 
And  often  I  am  deluged  with 
This  little  drop  of  blood. 

I  know  from  whence  the  heritage  — 

From  out  the  hearts  of  kings  — 
Sometimes  it  grows  ethereal, 

And  spreads  itself  in  wings ; 
And  then  I  feel  the  souls  of  winds 

Go  bearing  me  away 
Back  to  the  high  ancestral  halls, 

Where  jewelled  fountains  play. 


A    KINGLY    HERITAGE.  53 

Within  the  royal  temple's  aisles 

Divinest  singers  sing, 
And  at  the  holy  altar  shrines 

The  sweetest  censers  swing, 
The  incense  of  whose  pure  perfume 

Melts  through  the  azure  dome, 
And  forms  again  in  spirit  flowers, 

In  the  "Mighty  Spirit's"  home. 


The  crowns  that  graced  the  haughty  brows 

Of  my  ancestral  kings, 
Were  not  of  yellow  gold  and  stones, 

But  glorious  eagle's  wings. 
Their  palace  halls  —  the  boundless  woods, 

Their  shrines  —  the  forest  bowers, 
Their  singers  —  all  the  birds  of  heaven, 

Their  censer  cups  —  the  flowers. 


The  temples  that  they  worshipped  in, 

They  were  not  made  with  hands, 
And  they  had  their  hunting  grounds  of  One 

Who  never  sells  His  lands. 
And  when  the  mighty  buffalo, 

With  their  majestic  tread, 
Went  shaking  down  the  stars  from  heaven, 

From  the  hunting  grounds  o'erhead, 


54  A    KINGLY    HERITAGE. 

The  Brave,  to  whom  the  spirit  spake, 

Keplied  with  regal  pride, 
And  with  his  death-song  on  his  lips 

He  laid  him  down  and  died. 
Ye  sleep,  0,  kingly  ancestors ! 

Beneath  the  forest  trees, 
But  your  royal  ghosts  are  still  about 

Upon  the  woodland  breeze. 

Sometimes  they  tramp  across  my  heart 

As  through  a  hunting  ground; 
I  feel  a  hundred  Indians  leap 

Within  it  at  a  bound. 
'Tis  but  a  little  drop  of  blood, 

And  yet  I  feel  it  roll 
As  if  a  thousand  tomahawks 

Were  lifted  in  my  soul ! 

It  lights  the  secret  council  fires 

Within  my  heart  and  brain, 
At  which  the  soul  in  silence  sits 

And  deigns  not  to  complain. 
Your  royal  ghosts,  0,  woodland  kings ! 

They  reign  in  me  at  will, 
And  bid  me,  with  imperial  pride, 

To  suffer,  and  be  still 


WE    MET    AND    PARTED.  55 

They  do  not  teach,  when  smote,  to  turn 

And  give  the  other  cheek; 
Alas,  0  lordly  ancestors ! 

Ye  were  not  over-meek  : 
Too  much  of  eagle  in  your  souls, 

Too  little  of  the  dove, 
My  heritage  though  rich  in  hate, 

Is  poor  enough  in  love ! 


Pet  and  fjsrfwt. 


WE  met  and  parted  —  only  met  but  once, 
And  then  we  parted.     God  had  willed  it  so. 
We  looked  within  each  other's  eyes,  and  saw 
Our  pictures  deep  within  each  other's  eyes, 
And  felt  them  each  upon  the  other's  heart. 
We  shivered,  and  we  wept,  and  spoke  of  griefs 
That  but  belonged  to  others  :  and  we  talked 
About  the  woes  of  others  —  meaning  ours  — 
Sorrows  that  came  but  of  our  having  met, 
And  knowing  we  must  part.     And  did  we  part  ? 
Was  that  farewell  a  parting?     It  may  be; 
And  yet  I  think  it  was  not  —  I  have  been 
Beside  thee  and  around  thee  through  the  years 
That  cast  their  shadows  back  on  that  adieu, 


56  WE    MET    AND    PARTED. 

And  all  the  angels  who  have  seen  my  heart 
Have  found  a  being  that  was  still  of  earth 
Upon  its  holiest  altar  there  enshrined; 
And  yet  they  could  not  chide,  for  thou  wert  there: 
And  well  enough  the  blessed  angels  knew 
That  nought  that  was  not  pure  as  pearl  could  come 
And  enter,  where  thy  image  barred  the  gate. 
Who  thinks  that  silence,  and  a  thousand  hills, 
Aud  years,  and  oceans,  can  avail  to  keep 
Souls  that  have  kissed  and  mingled,  far  apart? 
They  have  not  severed  ours;  they  never  may. 
Though  nought  but  Death   can  join  us  hand  in 

hand, 

There's  Death  enough  in  Life  to  join  our  hearts; 
And  faith  enough  in  the  sweet  Life  to  come 
Have  we,  to  know  that  on  the  other  shore 
We  two  shall  stand  —  two  beings  with  one  soul, 
One  wedded  soul  —  as  if  we  thus  had  lived, 
And  walked  the  selfsame  pathway  here  on  Earth. 


BEAT    TO    HER    PULSES    SWEET.  57 


BEAT  to  her  pulses  sweet 
Winds  of  the  summer  night ! 
Creep  to  her  bosom  deep, 

Silvery  streams  of  light ! 
Blow,  with  a  lullaby  low, 

Airs  of  the  midnight  still  j 
Come,  with  a  murmuring  hum, 

Roll  of  the  rippling  rill ! 
Float  to  her  snowy  throat, 

Breath  of  the  budding  flowers ! 
Faint  to  her  sweet  complaint, 

Damps  of  the  dewy  hours  ! 
Meet  in  her  heart,  each  sweet 

That  the  Earth  or  air  has  known  ! 
Rest  in  her  beautiful  breast, 

Beautiful  dreams,  alone. 


58  EVA. 


CAN  a  bird  with  wounded  wing, 
Above  the  branches  soar? 
Can  a  mother  gaily  sing, 

When  the  grass  is  withered  o'er 
A  little  heart,  that  bore 
Her  own  heart  to  the  shore, 
Where  angel-babies  meet, 
And  play  at  Jesus'  feet, 

And  creep  the  golden  floor  ? 

Through  earth,  forevermore, 
1  see  an  open  door, 

Beyond  the  cloudy  sleet, 

Where  my  dear  baby's  feet 
Have  walked  the  path  before. 
I  see  her  beckon  from  the  other  shore; 

I  listen  as  I  dream, 
That  I  am  sailing  softly  o'er, 

The  ripple  of  Life's  stream. 

What  should  I  sing  for  now, 
When  her  fair  lily  brow 
Is  glorified  and  white, 
Under  a  crown  of  light? 


EVA.  59 


I  may  not  sing  nor  weep 
Above  her,  in  her  sleep, 
For  the  sweet  Angels  keep, 
Kindly,  the  flowers  they  reap, 
And  they  will  guard  my  bud, 
In  her  pure  babyhood, 
Until  I  go  to  her, 
A  chastened  worshipper, 
To  press  her  angel  face, 
To  my  fond  heart's  embrace. 

Why  should  I  sing  ere  then  ? 
I  will  sing  gladly,  when 
My  fettered  soul  shall  rise, 
From  this  dim  world  of  sighs, 
To  the  sweet  upper  skies, 
To  meet  my  darling's  eyes, 
And  feel  her  downy  head 

Upon  my  heart  once  more, 
For  oh !  she  is  not  dead ! 

She  only  went  before. 


60  TOO    LATE. 


$00  Saty 

WHY  art  tliou  here,  sweet  bird, 
Beneath  the  wintry  stars? 
I  questioned,  while  I  heard 
A  withered  briar  stirred 

Against  my  window  bars. 
Bird  of  the  drooping  wing, 

A  sweetly-moaning  mouth, 

Thou  shouldst  be  singing  South. 
What  hope  or  love  could  bring 

Thy  little  straying  feet, 

From  leaves  and  roses  sweet, 
To  press  the  chilly  snow, 
And  feel  the  cold  winds  blow, 

And  stem  the  wintry  sleet? 
And  the  bird  answered,  "  Well,  I  know, 
Another  flower  will  never  grow 
So  beautiful  as  that  which  sprung 

From  out  a  little  sod, 
Where  lay  a  flower  that  faded  young 

To  blossom  up  with  God. 

I  saw  it  slowly  bud  and  bloom 

Above  that  angel-baby's  tomb; 

It  was  a  clover,  pure  and  white, 

The  sweetest  and  the  best 


LULU    BELL.  61 

That  ever  opened  to  the  light 

Above  a  baby's  breast. 
The  robin  called  me,  day  by  day, 

With  sweet  and  wooing  sound ; 
What  cared  I,  while  my  darling  lay, 

Sweet'ning  the  hallowed  ground  ? 
I  waited  but  to  see  it  die  — 

It  had  no  other  mate  — 
And  then  the  birds  had  wandered  by 
To  love  beneath  a  Southern  sky, 

Alas  !  for  me  too  late  ! " 


lulu  $ctt. 

ANGrELS  stoop  to  whisper, 
When  the  winds  are  low, 
O'er  our  little  lisper, 

In  her  dress  of  snow; 
With  her  tresses  straying 

O'er  the  pillow  white, 
And  the  dimples  playing 

Like  a  wave  of  light, 
Or  a  halo  raying 
O'er  an  angel  praying 
In  the  baby's  sight. 
6 


62  LULU    BELL. 

As  she  lay,  a  dreaming, 
O'er  her  features  fell 
Glory,  like  a  spell, 

And  a  seraph,  seeming, 
Talked  with  LULU  BELL! 

Fairer  than  the  blushes 

"When  the  day  is  born; 
Sweeter  than  the  thrushes 

In  the  scented  thorn 
Frailer  than  the  rushes 

By  the  marshy  dell; 
Bright  as  beauty's  flushes 

Is  our  LULU  BELL! 

LULU  BELL! 
Sweetly  swell 
Seas  of  crystal  love, 
From  the  overflowing  well, 

Where  a  little  dove, 
Fluttering  to  a  mother's  breast, 
Folds  its  snowy  wings  to  rest. 

May  thy  holy  love  abide 
Till  her  heart  is  glorified, 
By  the  silver  light  of  years 
Drifted  over  smiles  and  tears, 
Over  shadows,  over  woes, 
To  a  haven  of  repose. 


BELLA    DOWE.  63 

Darling!  may'st  thou  ever  rest, 
In  the  sweetly-sheltered  nest 
Of  a  mother's  faithful  breast. 
Shadow-clouds  will  curl  above  thee, 
But  if  there  is  one  to  love  thee  — 
One  soft  hand  to  cover  over, 
Thistles,  in  the  fragrant  clover, 
Crushing  all  beside  the  sweet 
From  the  pathway  of  thy  feet, 
Then,  indeed,  thy  lot  is  well, 
Little,  gentle  LULU  BELL! 


grito 

GENTLE  Maiden! 
Over-shaden 

By  thy  sunny  smiles,  as  sweet 
As  the  lily,  interbraiden 

With  the  morning's  dewy  feet. 
Up  it  springs,  in  crystal  glory, 
Whispers  out  its  tender  story, 
And  the  breezes  lift  it  up, 
From  its  over-bending  cup; 
Loving,  fragrant,  holy  thing, 
For  thy  heart  an  offering  — 
Lily !  thus  I  liken  thou, 
Unto  gentle,  BELLA  DOWE. 


64  BELLA  DOWE. 

BELLA  DOWE! 
List  the  vow 

That  I  make  to  thee ! 
Ere  the  lilies  droop  again, 
Underneath  the  summer  rain, 

I  shall  cease  to  be; 
And  I  vow  thee  by  the  blowing 

Of  the  lily  bell  so  white, 
That  my  love,  forever  flowing 

O'er  thee,  like  a  stream  of  light, 
Shall  flow  ever,  as  to-night. 

I  am  going, 
Where  the  glowing, 
Of  diviner  waters  roll, 
While  a  bud  of  hope  is  blowing 
Fragrantly,  within  my  soul; 
It  is  this:  Oh,  BELLA  DOWE! 
When  the  grass  is  o'er  me  growing, 
Thou  wilt  feel  my  love  is  flowing 
Softly  unto  thee,  as  now. 

Loving  BELLA  !  gentle  BELLA  ! 
Summer  breezes!  kindly  tell  her, 
When  the  dust  is  on  my  brow, 
How  I  love  her,  BELLA  DOWE. 


SWEET    BESSIE    GRAY.  65 


w  (Bntg. 


MOTHER!  I  love  sweet  Bessie  Gray 
Better  than  all  the  girls; 
She  is  so  gentle  in  her  play, 
And  has  such  pretty  curls, 

And  every  blessed  morn,  she  sings 

Together  with  the  birds  : 
I  think  that  she  has  hidden  wings, 

That  nutter  'neath  her  words; 

For  I  have  heard  a  little  sound 

Fill  her  sweet  pauses  out; 
Perhaps,  the  angels  were  around, 

And,  wondering,  stayed  about. 

I  cannot  find  in  all  my  books, 
Her  words,  nor  yet  their  tune; 

So  like  the  ripple  of  the  brooks, 
Under  the  stars,  in  June. 

Dear  Allie  Ray  has  hazel  eyes. 

That  speak  their  own  sweet  praise; 
And  Sue's,  are  like  the  summer  skies, 

But  not  like  Bessie  Gray's. 
6* 


66  HEART-BREATHINGS. 

Sweet  Bessie  Gray's  are  like  the  night, 
So  calm,  and  dark,  and  deep; 

With  a  soul-star,  to  make  the  light  — 
Mother  !  why  should  she  weep  ? 

For  all  the  violets  unfold, 

When  her  soft  hands  they  see; 

They  long  to  wither  in  her  hold, 
And  yet,  they  hide  from  me. 

The  dew-drop,  in  the  rose's  heart, 
The  tears,  in  Bessie's  eyes, 

Were  shaken  down,  but  fell  apart, 
From  flower-buds,  in  the  skies. 


PRESS  my  cold  hand  closer,  dearest, 
To  your  warm  heart,  while  I  weep; 
I  would  feel  your  breath  the  nearest 
On  my  lips,  and  o'er  my  sleep. 
Bend  above  me, 
Love,  and  love  me, 
Sing  me  to  a  slumber  deep. 


HEART-BREATHINGS.  67 

I  should  sleep,  without  your  singing, 
I  could  love,  without  your  mouth ; 

For  the  breezes  would  be  bringing 
Songs  and  odors  from  the  South; 

Odors,  they  had  stolen,  blowing 
O'er  the  sweetness  of  your  lips; 

Music,  they  had  learned,  in  knowing 
Your  sweet  spirit's  fellowships. 

I  could  rest,  without  your  pressing 
My  cold  hands  against  your  heart; 

But,  without  your  murmured  blessing, 
I  could  never  hence  depart. 

I  could  never  go  up  yonder, 

Through  the  pearly  gates  above, 
Without  smiles  a  little  fonder, 
Dimpling  round  the  lips  I  love, 
Without  feeling 
The  revealing 
Of  a  hope  untold. 
I  would  carry  up  its  sealing, 
To  the  upper  fold. 

Gentle  lover ! 
Weep  above  her ; 
She  will  nevermore 
Call  a  human  heart  to  love  her. 


GOOD    NIGHT. 

It  is  well  she  went  before. 

She'll  be  waiting  at  Heaven's  door, 

Over,  on  the  other  shore, 

Ye  shall  walk  the  golden  floor, 

Side  by  side,  foreverinore. 


GOOD  NIGHT?  ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite; 
Let  us  remain  together  still, 

Then,  it  will  be  —  Good  Night ! 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood, 
Then,  it  will  be   Good  Night! 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move, 
From  evening  close,  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  —  Good  Night! 


TOSSED    UPON    LIFE'S    HEAVING    OCEAN.     69 


Steed  upon  life's  leitMttg 


TOSSED  upon  Life's  heaving  ocean, 
Swaying  to  its  billow's  motion, 
Naught  care  I  for  its  commotion, 

Though  the  storms  are  black  above  me, 
While,  with  her  divine  devotion, 
I  have  Mary,  still,  to  love  me. 


In  the  midnight,  when  the  thunder 
Echoes  o'er  the  waves,  and  under, 
Tearing  ships  and  hearts  asunder, 

None  of  these  can  ever  move  me, 
With  so  wild  a  thrill  of  wonder, 

As  that  Mary  lives  to  love  me. 


When,  from  out  my  bosom,  taking 

One  soft  tress,  that  stills  its  aching, 

And  three  words,  that  checked  its  breaking 

Her  —  "I  love  you"  —  fondly  proves  me, 
That  my  heart,  a  heaven  is  making 

In  the  thought,  that  Mary  loves  me. 


70  I    WILL    NOT    SAY    GOOD-BYE. 

Mary !  thou  art  all  my  treasure, 
Grace-note  of  my  heart's  song-measure, 
Thought  of  all  my  toil  and  leisure; 

And  my  soul's  deep  love  shall  prove  thee, 
That  thou  art  my  only  pleasure, 

And  that  I  but  live,  to  love  thee. 


J  mil  not  sag  (Snctl-bge. 

I  WILL  not  say  —  Good-bye  ! 
For  how  can  you  and  I 
Be  parted,  though  so  wide  ? 
We  walk  in  soul  to-day, 
Who  seem  so  far  away, 
And  wander,  side  by  side; 
There  is  no  sad  farewell, 
For  those  who  fondly  dwell 
Together,  heart  to  heart; 
They  cannot  walk  apart: 
And  thus,  I  may  not  say  — 
Farewell,  dear  friend,  to-day. 


THE    ALPINE    LOVERS.  71 

Jilt?  Alpine  Jtotim. 
I. 

IN  a  low  hut,  among  the  Alpine  ledges, 
There  dwelt  a  hunter,  and  a  gentle  maid, 
Purer  than  flowers  upon  the  hawthorn  hedges, 
Blossomed  within  the  glade. 


She  had  no  treasure,  save  the  silver  arrow, 
With  which  her  radiant  tresses  were  confined; 

Sweeter  than  twitterings  of  a  summer  sparrow, 
Her  voice  rose  on  the  wind. 


What  need  of  treasures,  while  the  world  above  her, 
Glittered  with  gems  as  in  the  light  of  God? 

There  dwelt  a  hunter,  who  but  lived  to  love  her, 
Up  where  the  angels  trod. 


He  often  told  her,  how  the  dear  departed 
Wandered  beside  him,  on  the  giddy  heights; 

And  well  she  knew,  that  angels,  loving  hearted, 
Guarded  him  in  the  nights. 


72  THE    ALPINE    LOVERS. 

She  never  heard,  of  what  the  world  calls  "  fashion/' 
And  never  thought,  of  what  the  world  might  say ; 

Yet,  loving  deeds,  of  beautiful  compassion, 
Flowered  on  her  mountain  way. 


She  never  knew,  that  music  needed  teachers, 
But  learned  her  warblings  of  the  singing  rills ; 

She  thought  God's  mountains,  his  divinest  preachers, 
His  holiest  shrines,  His  hills ! 

The  incense  of  her  loving  heart's  devotion, 
Rose  little  higher  than  her  hunter's  cot; 

She  thought  the  spring  of  Love's  auroral  ocean, 
Welled  from  one  mountain  spot. 

The  summer  came,  and  brought  its  Alpine  roses, 
The  hunter  journeyed  with  an  angel-guide  ; 

And  wandered  forth  to  where  the  Earth-land  closes, 
Nor  left  the  angel's  side. 


II. 

The  swallows,  up  from  the  summer  hedges, 
And  hop  across  the  threshold  of  the  cot  — 

The  hunter's  cot,  among  the  Alpine  ledges — 
Singing,  "Forget  me  not." 


THE    ALPINE    LOVERS.  73 

Go  to  the  world,  and  sing  about  forgetting; 

0  little  birds!  they  need  your  lesson  there  — 
Not  to  the  maid,  whose  sun  of  life  is  setting 

Under  her  silver  hair  — 

Who,   through  long  days,   and  starless  nights  of 

sorrow, 

Watches  forever,  for  the  twilight  tide  — 
The   hour,   that   brings    her,    with-  each    coming 

morrow, 
Her  hunter-boy,  who  died. 

He  comes,  a  spirit,  in  the  twilights  lonely, 
And  smooths  her  tresses,  noting  not  their  hue ; 

He  takes  her  withered  hand  —  he  loved  her,  only, 
And  faithfully,  and  true. 

The  peasants  whisper,  that  the  hut  is  haunted, 
And  that  a  wizard-vine  is  round  the  door ; 

They  say  the  maiden  dwells,  as  if  enchanted, 
With  one,  who  is  no  more. 


74  I'M    DYING,    COMRADE. 


I'm 


I  THINK  I'm  dying,  comrade, 
The  day  is  growing  dark; 
And  that  is  not  the  bob-o-link, 

Nor  yet  the  meadow-lark : 
It  cannot  be  the  distant  drum; 

It  cannot  be  the  fife, 
For  why  should  drum,  or  bob-o-link, 
Be  calling  me  from  life? 

I  do  not  think  I'm  wounded ; 

I  cannot  feel  a  pain ; 
And  yet  Fve  fallen,  comrade, 

Never  to  rise  again. 
The  last  that  I  remember, 

We  charged  upon  the  foe; 
I  heard  a  sound  of  victory, 

And  that  is  all  I  know. 

I  think  we  must  have  conquered, 
For  all  last  night  it  seemed 

That  I  was  up  in  Paradise  — 
Among  the  blest,  it  seemed. 


I'M    DYING,    COMRADE.  75 

And  there,  beside  the  Throne  of  God, 

I  saw  a  banner  wave, 
The  good  old  Stars  and  Stripes,  my  boy, 

O'er  victory  and  the  grave. 

A  hundred  thousand  soldiers 

Stood  at  the  right  of  God; 
And  old  John  Brown,  he  stood  before, 

Like  Aaron  with  his  rod : 
A  slave  was  there  beside  him, 

And  Jesus  Christ  was  there ; 
And  over  God,  and  Christ,  and  all, 

The  banner  waved  in  air. 

And  now  I'm  dying,  comrade, 

And  there  is  old  John  Brown 
A  standing  at  the  Golden  Gate, 

And  holding  me  a  crown. 
I  do  not  hear  the  bob-o-link, 

Nor  yet  the  drum  and  fife; 
I  only  know  the  voice  of  God 

Is  calling  me  from  life. 


76     THE  LORD  WILL  MAKE  IT  GOOD. 


10nt  mil  palK  it 


WHAT  need  of  the  muffled  music's  din  ? 
What  need  of  the  burial  rite  ? 
Dig  them  a  hole,  and  hustle  them  in, 
Anywhere,  out  of  our  sight. 

What  if  they  won  us  a  glorious  day? 

Was'nt  it  honor  enough 
For  niggers  to  die  in  the  selfsame  way 

As  men  of  a  nobler  stuff? 

"  Men  of  a  nobler  stuff,"  you  say, 

That  is  for  Christ  to  decide, 
When  he  calls  the  muster-roll  to-day, 

Over  the  other  side. 

What,  if  the  land  of  shadows  had  thrown 
A  darkness  o'er  some  of  the  faces, 

The  black  and  the  white,  in  heaven,  are  known 
Alone  by  the  spirit's  graces. 

Jesus  is  never  going  to  ask 

What  was  your  color,  below  ? 
It  matters  him  not,  if  the  earthly  mask 

Were  black,  or  as  white  as  snow. 


THE  LORD  WILL  MAKE  IT  GOOD.     77 

Jesus  will  look  at  the  Patriot's  heart, 

And  in  heaven,  it  is  understood, 
Though  the  War  Department  pays  but  part, 

That  the  Lord  will  make  it  good. 

What,  if  your  grave  is  a  wretched  hole  ? 

What,  if  your  color  be  that  of  night  ? 
The  robes  of  the  Patriot  soldier's  soul, 

Are  woven  out  of  the  inner  light. 

All  the  same,  be  you  black  or  white, 
All  the  same,  on  the  other  strand; 

Live  and  die  for  the  regal  Right, 

For  God  and  the  Right  and  the  Fatherland. 

The  darkest  night  has  the  brightest  stars, 

And  ever  the  brightest  dawning; 
And  a  voice,  up  over  his  prison  bars, 

Is  bidding  the  slave  —  "good  morning." 

The  prison  "bars"  are  tumbling  in, 

As  they  speak  to  one  another; 
Christ  above,  and  the  slave  within, 
While  the  nations  shake  with  a  jar  and  din, 
As  if  to  listen,  alone,  were  sin 

To  Christ's  sweet  call  of  —  "  brother." 


78  I    SAW    THEE    FROM    AFAR. 


saur  $\\t$  from 


IN  the  deep  stillness  of  the  heaven  above  me, 
I  saw  thee  from  afar, 
Nor  deemed  that  thou  could'st  ever  stoop  to  love 

me, 
Thou  radiant  morning  star  ! 

I  felt  thee  in  the  silence  of  the  even, 

Thy  presence,  like  a  rhyme, 
Thou  melody  from  out  the  smiling  heaven  ! 

Escaped  before  thy  time. 

Thou  grace-note,  shaken  by  the  wings  of  angels 

From  off  the  golden  lyres  ! 
Thou  incense  of  a  seraph's  sweet  evangels  ! 

Thou  flame  of  heavenly  fires! 

Thou  beauty  and  thou  glory  !  ever  trailing 

Streams  of  celestial  light, 
In  thy  pure  pathway,  up  beyond  our  hailing, 

And  far  beyond  our  sight; 

What  am  I,  that  from  out  thy  splendor  bending 

Thou  hast  looked  kindly  down, 
And  to  my  heart  so  graciously  art  lending 

Thy  white  love  for  a  crown  ? 


OUR    LITTLE    BIRD    OF    PARADISE.  79 


©ur  iitttif  Dint  o 


IN  our  hearts  a  baby  bird, 
By  her  wordless  warbling,  stirred 
Melody  by  angels  heard. 

Stooping  from  the  starry  skies, 
Looking  in  her  laughing  eyes, 
They  beheld,  with  sweet  surprise, 

Little  cherubs,  pure  and  white, 
Lying  in  their  liquid  light, 
Swimming  in  their  saintly  sight. 

Airs  of  Aiden  seemed  to  float 
Softly  round  her  snowy  throat, 
While  the  blessed  angels  wrote  —  • 

Bird  of  Paradise,  we  moan 

That  thy  wandering  wings  have  flown 

From  the  sweet  celestial  Throne. 

And  the  angels  fluttered  round, 

Singing  inly  without  sound, 

"The  lost  lamb  of  heaven  is  found." 


80  OUR    LITTLE    BIRD    OF    PARADISE. 

And  the  mother,  little  knowing, 
That  her  bosom's  bud  was  growing, 
Only  for  a  sweeter  blowing, 

Heard  not,  in  the  creeping  calm, 
Brooding  with  its  blessed  balm, 
The  soft  swelling  of  a  psalm, 

By  whose  sound,  the  little  flower 
Opened,  to  the  magic  power 
Of  the  music's  swelling  shower. 

When  the  clouds  of  heaven  uncurl, 
We  can  see  our  little  girl, 
Beautiful,  and  pure  as  pearl, 

Looking  on  us,  and  we  know 
Though  the  nests  be  filled  with  snow, 
Whence  the  little  birdlings  go, 

That  they  flit  in  fairer  groves, 
Watching  o'er  their  earthly  loves, 
Seraph-winged,  celestial  doves. 


TO    WILLIAH    CULLEN    BRYANT.  81 

§0  Mittntm  OJuIUn  $rg<wt, 

ON  HIS  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY,  NOV.   3,   1864. 

NOT  from  the  cultured  gardens, 
and  not  from  the  daisied  sod, 
Do  I  bring  my  little  offering, 

but  down  from  the  hills  of  God  — 
Down  from  the  crystal  mountains, 
where  never  a  flower  was  sown, 
Save  the  flower  that  the  Lord  has  planted.* 
in  sisht  Of  the  Great  White  Throne. 


From  over  the  nests    of  the  eagles, 

and  under  the  Angels'  feet, 
Where  the  opal  airs  of -summer 

and  the  winds  of  winter  meet, 

*  The  blossom  of  Edelweiss  presented  Mr.  Bryant  was 
gathered  upon  an  Alpine  mountain  in  Switzerland,  nearly 
eleven  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  It  grows 
only  upon  the  snow  mountains,  and  is  held  in  great  vener 
ation  by  the  hunters.  It  is  the  first  offering  an  Alpine 
lover  brings  to  the  idol  of  his  heart,  and  is  believed  to 
blossom  only  for  sinless  maidens,  Poets,  Saints,  and  the 
truly  good.  The  Alpineers  tell  us  that  it  will  wither  and 
die  if  a  bad  man  but  look  upon  it. 


82  TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

A  flower  I  bring  —  an  offering 
from  the  snow-hill's  silver  crest, 

And  leave  sweet  songs,  and  laurel  crowns, 
and  Earth-flowers,  for  the  rest. 

The  Alpine  hunters  tell  us, 

that  when  a  Poet  dies, 
God  meets  him  at  the  Golden  Gate, 

crowned  with  the  Edelweiss. 
But  only  those  who've  worshipped  Him 

in  singing  Nature's  praise, 
And  walked  beside  Him  on  the  hills, 

and  through  Life's  lowly  ways. 

0,  King  of  Nature's  Songsters ! 

and  thus  I  bring  to  thee, 
This  blossom  from  the  Alpine  hills  — 

the  glorious  and  Free; 
That  when  the  Angels  bid  thee  pause, 

where  oft  thy  soul  has  trod 
To  crown  thee  on  the  mountain  tops, 

upon  thy  way  to  God, 

That  thou  may'st  recognize  the  flower 

as  one,  while  yet  below, 
And  walking  in  the  Earthly  ways, 

thou  still  had'st  learned  to  know. 


ANGELS  !    LEAD    HER   LIGHTLY.  83 

Thus,  from  no  cultured  garden, 

and  not  from  the  daisied  sod, 
Do  I  bring  my  little  offering 

but  down  from  the  hills  of  God. 


!  feint     *r 


A  NOELS  !  lead  her  lightly 
J-JL.     Up  the  heavenly  stairs, 
Never  soul  so  slightly 
Needed  earthly  prayers. 

Leave  her  where  the  glory 
Of  His  shadow  falls, 

There  to  tell  her  story 
When  her  Saviour  calls. 

She  will  whisper  faintly 
Of  her  sin  and  shame, 

When  in  accents  saintly 
Jesus  calls  her  name, 

"  Mary  !  "  and  the  Angels, 
Singing  round  the  Throne, 

Cease  their  sweet  evangels 
At  that  tender  tone. 


84  THE    OLD    YEAR. 

All  the  saints  in  Aiden 
That  for  joy  were  dumb, 

Echo  round  the  maiden, 
Jesus'  gentle,  "Come." 


©id 


/""lOULD  the  dear  and  dead  old  year, 
v^1     Arise  from  out  the  past, 
And  bring  again  his  sunshine  here, 

And  bid  its  glory  last  — 
We  would  not  lure  him  back  again, 
With  all  the  midnights  and  the  rain, 
E'en  though  his  twilight  tints  were  sweet, 
And  rosy  his  auroral  feet  — 
Although  his  dews  were  pure  and  clear, 
And  all  his  blessed  birds  were  dear, 
For  there  were  ravens  in  the  dark, 
Who  sang  not  like  the  morning  lark, 
But  croaked  with  visage  dark  and  grim, 
A  symphony  to  her  sweet  hymn;  — 
And  there  were  ravens  of  the  heart 
Who,  looking  forward,  saw  the  dart, 


THE    NEW    YEAR  85 

That  turned  our  morning  into  night, 
Who  knew  our  roses  hid  a  blight. 
Oh  no,  we  would  not  lure  him  back. 
With  all  the  shadows  on  his  track. 


$t  ntr 


WELCOME  to  the  prince  of  Earth, 
Regal  Conqueror  by  birth, 
Kindly  deal  with  us  and  ours, 
Lead  us  over  beds  of  flowers, 
And  boside  Life's  limpid  streams, 
Where  the  soul's  sweet  sunshine  beams. 
Lead  us  not  into  the  dark, 
Where  no  singing  wren  nor  lark 
Wakes  the  morning  with  his  mirth, 
Glorifying  Life  and  Earth, 
Sweetening  all  the  air  above, 
With  the  fragrance  of  its  love. 
By  the  holy  water  flood, 
Sanctified  with  sacred  blood, 
Lead  us,  like  the  lambs  of  Him, 
In  whose  light  the  planets  swim, 
Nearer  to  the  heavenly  rest, 
On  our  Father's  faithful  breast. 


86        OUR    SOULS    LEAP    OVER    THE    YEARS. 


(Out;  £oitls  top  orcr  the  gears. 

OUR  Souls  leap  over  the  years, 
And  we  measure  them  not  by  days, 
We  count  by  the  tears,  by  the  hopes  and  fears, 
That  flicker  in  Life's  highways. 

We  count  by  the  throbs  of  the  bounding  heart, 

By  its  beautiful  budding  dreams, 
By  the  joys  that  start  as  its  buds  unpart, 

And  deluge  our  heart  like  streams. 

We  count  by  the  smothered  sobs  that  rise 
To  the  breast  like  the  blight  on  flowers, 

By  the  soul's  low  sighs,  and  the  sad  good-byes, 
And  the  sound  of  the  Autumn  showers  — 

By  the  sound  of  the  pattering  drops  that  fall 
On  the  heart  when  its  leaves  are  sere, 

By  the  robin's  call,  when  his  roses  all 
Are  asleep  with  the  dead  old  year. 

We  count  by  the  roses  sweet, 

That  withered  and  dropped  from  our  hold, 
And  above  the  sleet,  by  the  Angel  feet, 

That  walk  in  the  streets  of  gold. 


OUR  SOULS  LEAP  OVER  THE  YEARS.    87 

We  count  by  the  beautiful  hands  that  pressed 

The  sweet  to  the  cup  of  gall, 
By  the  gentle  breast,  with  its  saintly  rest, 

Where  the  sifting  snow-flakes  fall  — 

By  the  loved  on  whom  the  snow 

Is  falling  in  crystal  flakes, 
By  the  plaintive  flow  of  the  anthem,  low, 

That  the  heart  breathes  when  it  breaks  — 

By  the  hills  we  have  heaped  so  high, 

Of  passion,  of  hate,  and  of  scorn, 
To  the  tinted  sky,  as  the  Angels  sigh 

For  the  sin  of  the  earthly  born. 

We  count  by  the  days  misspent, 

By  the  good  which  we  might  have  done, 

By  the  lute-strings  bent,  and  the  songs  unlent, 
That  we  clasped  to  our  hearts  for  one  — 

By  the  beautiful  golden  strings 

Of  the  glittering  harp,  whose  tune 

An  echo  brings  o'er  the  folded  wings 
Of  the  birds  that  sang  in  June  — 

Of  the  Spirit-birds,  whose  flight 

Was  over  beyond  the  stars, 
Whose  soft  wings  white,  were  dipped  in  light, 

Whose  deeds  were  the  crystal  cars, 


00        OUR    SOULS    LEAP    OVER    THE    YEARS. 

By  whose  radiant  wheels  they  swept, 

Far  over  the  Earthly  strand  — 
For  the  tears  we  wept,  for  the  loved  who  stepped 

Across  to  the  Better  Land. 

We  measure  our  years  by  the  beat 

Of  our  fluttering  hearts,  and  wait 
For  a  blessed  seat,  with  the  sainted  sweet, 

Who  sit  by  the  jasper  gate  — 

By  the  trust  in  the  love  we  press 
To  our  hearts,  like  a  garment  white, 

By  the  lips  which  bless,  with  a  mute  caress, 
Our  own,  with  a  kiss  of  light  — 

By  the  hands  we  would  clasp  again, 
By  the  loved  who  will  love  no  more, 

By  our  souls  refrain,  while  the  spirit  rain, 
Is  flooding  the  life-cup  o'er. 

Our  souls  leap  over  the  years, 

And  we  measure  them  not  by  days  — 

We  count  by  the  tears,  by  the  hopes  and  fears, 
That  flicker  in  Life's  highways. 


THINE    AT    LAST.  89 


at  last 


I  FAIN  would  send  thee,  dearest, 
One  little  token-flower, 
But  the  flowers  have  lost  their  sweetness, 

And  my  love  has  lost  its  power. 
Oh,  tell  me  there  is  yet  one  chord 

Unbroken  still  the  same, 
In  thy  dear  heart,  that  answer  eth, 

Though  faintly,  to  my  name, 
And  I  will  give  the  wooing  air, 

And  loving  breeze,  a  tone, 
And  when  they  kiss  thy  golden  hair, 

It  is  my  lips,  mine  own. 

Oh,  dearest,  come  to  me  ! 
The  blessed  angels  see 
My  yearning  heart  o'erleap 
Its  doubts  and  shadows  deep, 
And  nestle  down  by  thee. 
Come  in  the  silent  night, 
With  thy  sweet  soul  so  white, 

And  say  to  mine, 
Life  is  not  life  nor  light, 
My  heart  has  no  delight, 

Unshared  with  thine. 
8* 


90  ALLIE    GREY. 

The  little  snowdrops  cling 

In  silence  to  the  stem, 
An  offering  I  bring 

Thy  gentle  heart  of  them. 
The  snow  is  dropping,  Love, 

In  pure  and  pearly  flakes, 
My  weary  heart  above, 

Oh,  God !  it  breaks,  it  breaks ! 

I  live,  I  live,  I  wake, 
The  snow  is  melting  fast, 

For  thy  dear  smile's  sweet  sake, 
And  I  am  thine  at  last. 


THE  snow  was  white  around  the  home 
Of  gentle  Allie  Grey, 
And  she,  upon  her  little  bed 
In  silent  sorrow  lay; 

The  mother  sat  beside  her  child, 
And  kissed  her  chilly  cheek, 

But  oh,  she  was  so  still  and  cold, 
She  scarce  could  smile,  or  speak. 


ALLIE    GREY.  91 

The  angels  came  from  Paradise 

And  told  sweet  Allie  Grey, 
That  neither  storm,  nor  snow,  nor  ice, 

Beyond  the  Earth-land  lay. 

And  Allie  whispered  very  low, 

0,  tell  me,  mother  sweet, 
And  will  the  angels  give  me  shoes 

To  warm  my  little  feet  ? 

And  can  I  sit  the  whole  day  long 

Beside  the  fire,  at  play  ? 
They  said  it  was  a  sunny  land 

In  Heaven,  so  far  away. 

And  shall  I  gather  violets 

Beneath  the  warming  sky? 
But  I  will  shut  my  eyes,  mamma, 

And  try  to  sleep  and  die. 

And  then  the  Angels  came  again, 

With  songs  so  soft  and  low, 
And  took  her  up  beyond  the  land 

Of  chilly  winds  and  snow. 


92    THE    SWISS    PEASANT    WOMAN'S    OFFERING 


£uriss  peasant  Mo  man's 
to  the  JStimtorg  Jfttr.* 


IT  is'nt  much,  Herr  Consul,  that  I  have  brought 
to-day, 
But  you're  welcome  to  the  little,  as  to  the  flowers 

of  May  , 
There  is'nt  much  upon  the  Alps  except  the  pines 

and  flowers, 

The  sunshine  and  the  sparkling  dew,  and   all  the 
singing  showers; 

*  Of  all  the  gifts  received  for  this  Fair,  perhaps  the 
most  touching  is  that  given  by  an  Alpine  peasant  woman 
in  Zurich,  Switzerland  —  a  tiny  book  of  pressed  Alpine 
flowers,  together  with  a  simple  wooden  wine-cup  that 
formerly  belonged  to  her  son,  now  a  soldier  in  the  Union 
Army.  On  presenting  the  cup  and  the  little  book  of 
flowers,  the  good  old  woman  took  a  bottle  of  red  Switzer 
wine  from  her  pocket,  and  filling  the  cup,  handed  it  to 
the  Consul,  and  then  drank  herself,  snying  :  —  "  There's 
a  health  and  a  greeting  to  America  ;  God  bless  my  boy's 
new  Fatherland."  "God  bless  it."  replied  the  Consul, 
"and  Switzerland  too."  The  old  woman  thanked  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  went  away,  leaving  her  boy's 
cup  and  the  Alpine  blossoms  behind  her. 

An  American  lady,  residing  in  Zurich,  being  at  the 
rooms  of  the  American  Consulate,  when  the  poor  woman 
came  trembling  in  with  her  gift,  wrote  the  following 
impromptu  lines  for  the  donor,  and  placed  them  in  the 
cup.  —  New  York  Tribune. 


TO    THE    SANITARY    FAIR.  93 

But  I  couldn't  catch  the  sunshine,  nor  bottle  up 

the  dew, 
And  the  pine  nuts  of  the  Alpine  hills  are  not  for 

such  as  you; 
And  so  I  brought  the  blossoms  that  bloom  upon 

the  hills, 

And  open  on  the  sunny  banks  beside  the  glacier  rills; 
If  you  think  them  worth  the  sending,  I  shall  indeed 

be  glad, 
There  may  be  one  who'll   buy  them  —  perhaps  a 

Switzer  lad. 
My  boy  is  in  America,  you  may  have  seen  him 

there, 
You'd  know  him  by  his  mountain  tone,  and  by  his 

golden  hair; 
His  voice  was  like  an  Alpine  horn,  so  clear  its 

crystal  notes, 
'T  was  like  the  music  of  a  song  to  hear  him  call  his 


The  boy  was  gentle  as  a  kid,  and  yet  as  full  of  fire, 
And  dauntless,  as  that  royal  bird,  the  Alpine  lam- 

meryeir  ;  — 

It  is'nt  much,  Herr  Consul,  that  such  as  I  can  bring, 
But   here   is    Hiery's    wine-cup  —  a   little    simple 

thing  — 
A  Switzer  wine -cup  fragrant  still  with  all  the  sweet 

perfumes 
Of  violets,  and  forget-me-nots,  and  choicest  Alpine 

blooms ; 


94      JACK   AND    JIM,    COMRADES,    WHO    FELL 

So  take  the  cup,  Herr  Consul,  and  take  the  Alpine 

flowers, 
For  they  may  mind   some   Switzer  lad  of  happy 

by-gone  hours. 
Fill  up  the  little  Switzer  cup  with  sparkling  Switzer 

wiej* 
A  high  health  to  America,   the  Country  of  the 

Free! 


|adt  and  Jim,  Comrades,  urhc  felt  at  the 
of  ^fort  fisher. 


I  KNOW  not  what's  the  matter,  Jack, 
but  all  the  livelong  day 
I've  thought  about  the  meadow  brook, 

by  which  we  used  to  play; 
I've  seemed  to  hear  its  singing  sound, 

and  see  the  pebbles  gleam, 
As  if  the  very  stars  of  heaven 
were  shining  from  the  stream. 

I  never  noticed  how  they  shone, 

until  one  May-day  morn, 
When  you  and  I  were  sowing  in 

the  widow  Johnson's  corn. 

*  "  TFz'e"  — the  Swiss  peasant  word  for  wine. 


AT    THE    BATTLE    OF    FORT    FISHER.  95 

0,  Jack !  if  you  could  know  my  heart, 

you  wouldn't  think  me  weak, 
Not  even  though  the  blinding  tears 

are  falling  as  I  speak. 

As  we  were  planting  there  the  corn 

that  morning  in  the  May, 
Perhaps  you  don't  remember  it, 

but  Mary  came  that  way; 
She  waded  right  across  the  brook, 

with  feet  as  bare  as  ours. 
And  ever  since,  the  pebbles  shine, 

and  gems  are  on  the  flowers ! 

I  wished  I  were  the  butter- cup 

she  crushed  beneath  her  feet  — 
You  may  not  like  the  fancy,  Jack, 

and  yet  it  seems  so  sweet. 
0,  Jack !  she  came  along  that  way, 

and  yet  I  dared  not  look 
To  see  her  standing  on  the  bank, 

and  smiling  in  the  brook, 

Bear  with  me  yet  a  little  while, 

though  foolish  it  may  seem, 
To  you  who  never  loved  her,  Jack, 

or  kissed  her  in  your  dream. 


96      JACK    AND    JIM,    COMRADES,    WHO    FELL 

I  think  the  love  was  given  to  me 

when  God  he  gave  me  life, 
For  when  not  more  than  four  years  old, 

I  played  she  was  my  wife. 

'Twas  I  who  made  the  little  sled 

whereon  she  loved  to  slide, 
And  the  wagon,  from  a  raisin  box, 

in  which  she  used  to  ride  — 
The  box  I  had  of  Nathan  Jones, 

who  kept  the  village  store, 
And  I  whittled  out  the  little  wheels, 

Indeed,  'twas  quite  a  chore. 

The  fellows  all  are  fast  asleep, 

and  you  mustn't  keep  awake, 
For  the  battle  of  to-morrow 

begins  with  morning's  break; 
'T  was  wrong  of  me  to  talk  to  you 

so  long  into  the  night, 
But  we  may  never  meet  again 

after  the  morrow's  fight. 

If  there's  any  word  you  want  to  send, 
•  'twere  better  not  to  wait, 
For  if  you  should'nt  speak  to  night, 
it  might  then  be  too  late. 


AT    THE    BATTLE    OF    FORT    FISHER.          97 

What  shall  I  tell  the  folks  at  home, 

if  you,  dear  boy,  should  die  ? 
0,  Jack !  I  never  dreamed  that  aught 

could  sever  you  and  I. 

We're  nearer  now,  by  far,  dear  Jim, 

than  even  you  suppose ; 
We've  shared  each  other's  joys  in  life, 

and  felt  each  other's  woes  — 
I  cannot  talk;  but  here's  a  note 

I.  finished  as  you  came, 
Take  it,  and  give  it,  if  I  fall, 

within,  you'll  find  the  name. 


Sweet  Mary  Gray,  the  psalni  to-day 

must  other  voices  sing, 
For  all  the  song  within  your  soul 

is  out  upon  the  wing; 
It  is  as  if  the  winds  of  heaven 

had  wafted  every  tone 
Up  to  the  sainted  listeners, 

beside  the  Golden  Throne. 

Why  press  your  hands  upon  your  heart 

with  lowly  bended  head  ? 
They  hide  away  from  glare  of  day 

a  letter,  stained  with  red. 
9 


98  JACK    AND    JIM,    COMRADES,    ETC. 

0,  Mary  Gray,  you  can  but  pray, 
and  He  who  feeds  the  bird, 

Will  give  you  calm,  and  send  you  balm, 
as  written  in  His  Word. 


O,  Jack  and  Jim !  ye  never  thought 

to  lie  together  there, 
Within  the  dear  old  meeting-house 

with  roses  in  your  hair  — 
With  blossoms  on  your  bosoms, 

and  the  old  Flag  over  each, 
And  Elder  Mills  within  the  desk, 

sobbing  too  much  to  preach. 

Alas,  poor  boys!  ye  both  have  dreamed 

of  standing  there  one  day, 
With  roses,  and  with  orange-flowers, 

and  with  sweet  Mary  Gray. 
0,  Jim !  a  blessed  thing  for  you, 

this  sleep,  without  a  dream  — 
God's  ways  are  always  merciful 

however  hard  they  seem. 

It  matters  little  now,  dear  Jack, 

that  gentle  Mary  Gray 
Has  smoothed  your  clustering  golden  curls, 

and  kissed  your  cheek  to-day; 


GOOD    FRIDAY.  99 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  you  in  heaven, 

and  may  be  too,  to  Jim  — 
God  comforts  those,  sweet  Mary  Gray, 

who  put  their  trust  in  Him. 


(Sooct 

AT  THE  ISLE  OF  UFNAU.* 

SILENCE,  and  hush  profound 
Brood  in  the  air  around, 

The  Saviour  sleeps. 
Even  the  bird's  sweet  notes 
Are  hushed  within  their  throats. 

And  the  soft  south  wind  keeps 

Among  the  hills,  and  weeps. 
The  still  and  fragrant  air 
Is  eloquent  with  prayer. 

The  Saviour  sleeps. 

*  Written  at  the  Isle  of  Ufnau  in  Lake  Zurich,  Swit 
zerland.  This  beautiful  island,  which  contains  one  dwell 
ing-house,  and  three  churches,  is  distinguished  as  being 
the  death  and  buriftl-place  of  Ulrich  Van  Hutten,  the  first 
singer  of  German  Liberty.  The  Monks  of  Einsiedeln, 
who  are  the  proprietors  of  the  island,  hold  services  in 
its  churches  during  the  season  of  Lent. 


100  THE    DEAD    BOY. 

0,  little  ones  and  weak ! 
Let  the  sweet  stillness  speak 

Of  sweetest  calm  — 
Sweeter  than  timbrel's  tone, 
Or  harp's  melodious  moan. 

Or  murmuring  psalm. 
Watch,  and  in  silence  pray, 
They  will  not  come  to-day 
And  roll  the  stone  away  — 

The  Saviour  sleeps. 


I  LOOK  along  the  floor  — 
I  see  a  precious  store 
Of  tiny,  half-worn  toys, 
Such  as  all  little  boys 
So  love  to  treasure  up  — 
Here  is  his  silver  cup, 
And  here,  a  ragged  book  — 
Blinded  by  tears  I  look  ! 
The  cup  is  standing  still 
Upon  the  window  sill, 
Just  as  he  placed  it  there, 
After  his  evening  prayer  — 
Before  he  went  to  bed, 

And  laid  him  down  to  sleep. 


THE    DEAD    BOY.  101 

"  Mother,"  the  darling  said, 

"  Will  God  the  kitten  keep 

And  watch  it  in  the  night, 
If  it  be  good  and  mild, 
Just  like  a  pleasant  child, 

And  does'nt  scratch  nor  bite  ?" 
Alas,  the  kitten  plays 
Along  the  garden  ways, 
But  all  alone  to-day. 
And  I  must  put  away 
Each  little  blessed  toy, 
Because  my  angel  boy 
Will  want  them  nevermore ; 
For  all  his  plays  are  o'er. 
How  can  I  lay  aside 

The  bell  he  loved  to  ring? 
Must  these  knots  be  untied 

In  every  dangling  string? 
There  are  his  little  shoes 

Beneath  his  cherished  chair, 
He  never  more  may  loose 

One  of  the  precious  pair ; 
They  are  too  worn  to  use, 

But  who  on  earth  will  care  ? 
Are  they  not  dearer  still, 

Now  that  his  little  feet 
Have  climbed  the  heavenly  hill, 

And  walked  the  golden  street? 


102  THE    TWIN    BABY    SLEEPERS. 


Stoin  ijabg 

LYINGr  'neath  the  golden  gleaming 
Of  the  blessed  evening  star, 
Little  sleepers!  ye  are  seeming 
With  its  glory  softly  teeming, 
Beaming  through  your  gentle  dreaming 
From  the  beautiful  afar; 
Softly  sleeping, 
In  the  keeping 
Of  the  angels  from  afar. 

Those  dear  little  hands  are  holding 
In  a  clasping,  close  enfolding, 
One  another's  tiny  palms, 
Breathing,  blest,  embodied  psalms ! 

How  completely, 

And  how  sweetly 
Love  is  locked  in  your  still  arms  I 

Mother  of  the  little  sleepers ! 

Looking  upward  through  the  dark, 
Know  there  are  no  weary  weepers 

Up  beyond  the  singing  lark. 

*  Children  of  a  beautiful  young  mother,  who  is  a 
widow. 


IT    MIGHT    HAVE    BEEN.  103 

The  Supernal 

One,  Eternal, 
Is  the  Helmsman  of  Life's  barque, 

Kindly  guiding 

Its  still  gliding, 
And  its  tossing,  in  the  dark. 


"  |t  might  haw  ton." 

I  WOULD  have  asked  one  thing,  love, 
One  dearest  thing  of  thee  — 
That  the  name  you  gave  another 
You  had  only  given  to  me. 

Yet,  in  the  fair  hereafter, 

It  will  be  all  the  same  — 
I  shall  love  to  hear  the  Angels 

Calling  rny  Angel  name. 

For  I  know  the  magic  music 
Of  thy  name  will  then  be  mine, 

And  my  heart  will  beat  the  time,  love, 
To  the  melody  of  thine. 


104  SONG    OF    THE    RHINE. 


the 


I  HEAR  the  ripple  of  the  Rhine,       ^ 
Under  the  stars,  at  the  day's  decline, 
And  to  niy  heart  when  night  is  still, 
Its  music  brings  a  magic  thrill. 

The  linden  leaves  are  leaning  low, 
The  blushing  roses  faintly  blow, 
And  royally  around  the  Rhine, 
Cluster  Maria's  hopes,  and  mine. 

She  hears  with  me  'its  ripple  low, 
And  wonders  if  our  lives  will  glide 

In  half  so  musical  a  flow, 
Together,  by  its  singing  side. 

O,  God  !  I  shiver  with  afright, 

M}7  star  of  life  has  ceased  to  shine; 

A  shadow  swims  around  the  night  ! 
And  —  it  is  raining  in  the  Rhine. 


LET    THE    ANGELS    BE    MY    GUIDE.          105 


mg  (Stride, 


AS  I  kneel  before  the  throne, 
Speaking  in  the  softest  tone, 
Only  unto  God  alone, 
Floods  of  crimson  swiftly  roll 
Over  face,  and  heart,  and  soul, 
Into  being  sweetly  stirred 
By  the  music  of  a  word, 
Lightly  murmured  though  it  be, 
Father  !  only  unto  Thee. 

Jesus  —  whisper  I,  and  weep  — 
There  is  one  across  the  deep  ; 
Send  him  angels  in  his  sleep, 
"  Watch  and  ward  o'er  him  to  keep." 
There  is  something  yet  beside, 
(With  the  angels  as  a  guide,) 
I  would  ask  thee  if  I  may  — 
Something  else  for  which  I  pray  ] 
Let  the  angels  be  my  guide. 

There  is  one  across  the  deep, 
Moaning  in  his  weary  sleep; 
May  I  go,  with  a  noiseless  tread  — 
Sit  in  dreams  beside  his  bed  — 


106         LET    THE    AXGELS    BE    MY    GUIDE. 

Lay  within  his  fevered  palm 
Cooling  hands  with  touch  of  balm, 
Wooing  quietude  and  calm. 
Little  matter  if  he  knows 
Whence  the  healing  influence  flows, 
Lulling  him  to  soft  repose. 

Yet,  alas  !  whene'er  I  go, 
It  would  still  be  sweet  to  know 
That  he  felt  my  presence  round  him, 
Knew  whose  loving  arms  enwound  him, 
And  whose  eyes  and  heart  were  waking; 
Whose  poor  heart  was  almost  breaking 
With  its  anguished  love  and  fears  — 
Thus  I  fall  asleep  in  tears; 
Thus  I  dream  away  the  years. 


MJ289867 


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